


You, Perennially

by lalazee



Series: Roy/Ed Week 2020 [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalazee/pseuds/lalazee
Summary: With a sour expression, Ed reclines in his chair, propping his legs upon the cluttered desk as he extends his right arm to inspect the soulmark. He currently feels kind of numb about it, which Ed distantly recognizes is probably unadulterated shock and frozen horror, but he’ll take it over outright panic as he shifts his arm in the afternoon light and kind of marvels that any single human on this planet would ever have the misfortune of being cosmically bound to him.Roy Mustang is almost as unlucky as Ed. Almost.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Series: Roy/Ed Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056500
Comments: 23
Kudos: 400
Collections: Roy/Ed Week 2020





	You, Perennially

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this from beginning to end in twenty-four hours. Please be kind to me. 
> 
> Day 3 of RoyEd Week! Enjoy!

When the black rose blooms in watercolor splashes of midnight blue seeping into the edges, Ed briefly debates losing a limb for a second time in his life. Not entirely worth it, since he knows through osmosis of general life-knowledge that the stain will fade in five days time, but it’s the principle of the thing, for fuck’s sake.

Because the only asshole who has touched him today is Roy goddamn Mustang, and that was to pull him from the path of an oncoming car when Ed was too busy shoving a gyro in his face while walking and talking. He’s never eating gyros again.

Okay, that’s a dirty rotten lie, but whatever.

With a sour expression, Ed reclines in his chair, propping his legs upon the cluttered desk as he extends his right arm to inspect the soulmark. He currently feels kind of numb about it, which Ed distantly recognizes is probably unadulterated shock and frozen horror, but he’ll take it over outright panic as he shifts his arm in the afternoon light and kind of marvels that any single human on this planet would ever have the misfortune of being cosmically bound to him.

Roy Mustang is almost as unlucky as Ed. Almost. 

They’d so rarely touched in the, what, thirteen years they’d known each other? First because there had been no reason to, second because there had been no reason to, and then later because. . .there may have been some reasons to, but neither of them are stupid enough to act on them minus the few lingering glances across the pub table or the oddly comforting quiet that blankets them on grueling journeys across the country with Ed their official translator. 

There have been plenty of opportunities to touch, and it isn't like it had never happened. Funny thing about have a fake fucking arm, though, is that the whole soulmark thing is a wash right off the bat. Plus, Roy is always in those fucking gloves. On top of that, Ed always had a habit of hiding his arms to keep from giving himself away in his alchemy days.

Now he’s all free and easy with them like some stupid debutante showing off an ankle, but he doesn’t care. He’s got two whole arms and while his connection to The Gate is gone, his body has three-fourths of it’s original limbs and he’s going to show it off. 

_Now_ , however. 

Ed groans and drops his arm, scowling at the dusty ceiling of the office in his house. Even with the rotating fan diligently whirring in the corner of the room and every window open, Central City is sweltering in the heatwave of mid-July, and the realization that Ed is going to have to wear long sleeves for nearly a week sounds like a true hell in waiting. 

Of course, he can just _not see_ Roy. That’s entirely doable. They don’t have anything planned for weeks. Ed doesn’t work _for_ the Fuhrer, but _with_ , and only when Ed is available to travel or attend high profile meetings. And since he’s an occasional emissary between Amestris and Xing, there are times when he has duties in that vein.

As it stands, Ed is currently a free bird without obligation, and more than content to continue his research between alkahestry and modern medicine. It keeps him occupied and happy and feeling useful in this godforsaken world. 

So, fuck Roy Mustang and fuck the black rose and whatever its stupid symbolism might be. Ed hates all that shit. He’s not going to belong to any Fuhrer, no matter how violently clever and devilishly handsome he is. And, soulmark or not, Mustang doesn’t want to be bogged down by the guy who he spent years babysitting like some marginally-less-shitty-than Hohenheim-kind-of-dad.

Without a second thought, Ed stomps to the bathroom and unearths the overflowing first aid kit from beneath the sink. Resolutely ignoring himself in the mirror because he doesn’t want to see the kind of face he’s making and have to actually address what he might be feeling, Ed wraps stark white gauze around his arm again and again until he’s satisfied, and tapes it down. 

There. No more Roy Mustang. No more them. Not that there ever was. Best for everybody. Life moves on and marks fade. 

The panic is absolutely _not_ setting in.

***

The panic is probably setting in.

“—lo?” Roy’s voice shoves into the roar of adrenaline and blood in Ed’s ears as he clutches the phone to his face. “Ed, are you there?”

“Obviously,” Ed manages. “I fucking answered, didn’t I?”

“And I congratulate you on your hustle,” Roy says evenly, “since we both know your proclivity for not answering the work line we had so specially installed for you.”

Ed is sitting ramrod straight at his desk, not a muscle relaxed. He fights to keep his voice level instead of saying: Hey, did you know God played another fucking trick on us and this one is a real doozy.

“I didn’t ask for this shit. What d’you want, Mustang?”

“Only a moment of your charming time, Edward,” Roy coos into the phone, and Ed briefly entertains creative ways he could lose his arm again. “I have a correspondence to send to Emperor Ling, and while my Xingese is good, we all know your time there has made you infinitely better.”

“Appealing to my ego doesn’t make me work overtime,” Ed says, forcing himself to hunch back into his chair, eyes training on the mocking bandage around his arm. He’s sweating buckets and it’s not entirely from the heat. “That only works on you.”

“Well, I’ll only be over for a short while after work,” Roy says, completely bowling him over with purposeful ignorance. “You can look it over and make any corrections before I have it sent. If you have any letters for the Emperor or Al, I’d be happy to send them along. They’ll arrive faster by government transport, anyway.”

“That’s not going to work for me,” Ed says, because it really fucking isn’t. At all. In theory, the offer is absolutely mundane in the course of their semi-friendly, semi-working relationship. But Ed doesn’t want to look at Roy Mustang for one damn second of his day. Not right now. Not when he knows his face sucks at not. . .doing the things he wants it to do. And Roy is like the grand master of faces, which doubly sucks. “I’ll come into the office tomorrow.”

“You hate coming into the office.”

“Nah,” Ed says. “I love watching you assholes toil under the fist of the man.”

“I _am_ the fist of the man,” Roy says, amusement lilting his voice. “I _am_ the man.”

Ed gags.

“Christ, there goes my lunch. Thanks a lot, asshole.”

“So, I’ll see you around eight fifteen?”

“Eight fifteen?” Ed scoffs. “That’s practically the middle of the night. You know you got underlings now, right? To do your bidding? Leave earlier. _Wait_ , shit,” Ed backtracks frantically because its way too easy to fall into step with Roy when he’s the one leading the dance. “No, I mean. Don’t come over. I’m busy!”

A brief pause. 

“Edward,” Roy says, saying his name all drawn out and slow like he’s scented the air for trouble. “Are you alright?”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I be?” Ed snaps. “I’m literally fucking busy. Not everyone in this world is going to drop their life for you, y’know. I don’t give a shit if you’re _the man_.”

Roy outright laughs over the phone and Ed melts. Once more, nothing to do with the goddamn weather. 

“Anyway,” Roy says, his voice fading as he is clearly on his way to hang up the phone, “see you after eight.”

Roy has mastered the Elric Phone Hang-Up better than Ed at this point. He doesn’t even get to hear the curses Ed hurls.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Ed sourly mimics into the dead phone he still holds to his ear. “Fuck.”

***

“Look!” Roy says with theatrical flare when Ed whips open the door with a scowl. “I’ve arrived an entire seven minutes early. Aren’t you thrilled?”

“So proud,” Ed deadpans, automatically stepping aside to allow Roy into his home. “You’re an absolute fucking master of your craft. Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything yet,” Roy says, putting on a great sigh as he sets aside a briefcase and unbuttons his uniform jacket, hanging it neatly beside the door. The night air is damp and thick, and Roy’s brow glistens, his hair pushed back with Ed assumes at this point is just sweat.

Ed feels lightheaded. His arm tingles. 

“It was preemptive.” Ed watches Roy neatly fold the cuff of one sleeve over fuzzy forearms and decidedly turns around and talks toward the kitchen. He needs something cold to drink.

Roy, of course, follows.

“Drink?” Ed asks, despite himself. He opens the fridge and shoves his head in, allowing himself a moment to close his eyes as the panic climbs his throat.

It’s nothing, they’re nothing. If there is one thing Ed is good at, it’s punching God in the face and tearing at the foundations of the universe. A pretty flower isn’t going to weaken his resolve. He’s spent too long cultivating the respect and kinda-friendship of this dumbass to ruin it with something like this.

“Ed?” says Roy from right-fucking-beside-him-holy-fuck. Ed jumps half out of his skin, whipping around with bugging eyes, instinctively leaning out of Roy’s inquisitive expression. This, of course, causes Ed to topple back into the door of the open fridge, losing his footing and—

Roy catches him like it’s nothing. Quick hands, quicker mind, his arm wraps around Ed’s waist and they’re in an embrace, Roy laughing with breathless surprise and Ed’s face going up in flame. Roy releases Ed just as quickly and Ed pats himself down like he might have lost something in the fall. He absently presses a hand to his heart and confirms that it’s all in working order, even if it doesn’t feel as such.

“Forgive me for saying so—” Roy begins.

“Not forgiven.”

“—but you’re a little more high strung than usual. Are you sure you’re alright? Have you hit a roadblock in your research?”

“I’m just _hot_ ,” Ed snaps, turning back to the fridge and unearthing two beers. He cracks the tops off with leverage from the edge of the countertop and a smack of his hand, giving over one with foam erupting from the mouth and spilling over his hand. “Drink.”

Eyebrows high but mouth blessedly shut, Roy merely nods and drinks, slurping first at the foam as he watches Ed take a long pull from his own. Then his gaze drops and his face morphs into muted concern.

“Ed, your arm—”

“Is also _fine_ ,” Ed says. “All of me is fine. Fine and hot.”

Roy blinks, his expression blank and polite.

“Of course,” he says, voice entirely modulated. “Clearly.”

Ed understands that whenever Roy makes that face, it’s a mask for something, but of what, he has no clue. Putting on his own most abrasive face, Ed leans back against the counter and gestures at Roy’s half-dressed state.

“That’s why I fuckin’ hate those uniforms. Can’t you design a summer version? How has the government existed this long without a summer uniform? Or is suffering part of the grand scheme?”

“I’ll look into it,” Roy says, his lips faintly curved as he sips at his beer. “I appreciate your input as ever, Ed. But truly, is your arm alright? That’s an expansive bandage.”

“I—” Ed doesn’t know how to lie well. “It’s pretty gruesome. I don’t wanna show it off.”

Roy’s brow climbs.

“How? Do you need a doctor to—”

“I’m sorry,” Ed says, stalking away, back toward the living room. “Who has a doctorate between us?”

“And who knows you well enough to understand that you ignore the sheer wealth of your own knowledge in favor of pure, unadulterated pigheadedness?” Roy casually replies as he follows. 

“Fuck off,” Ed says, equally casual as he slumps into a red velvet high-backed armchair of great grandeur that he found on the side of the road during some big-wig moving house. He crosses his legs and fiddles with his beer, shredding the damp wrapper from the sweating glass. “Where’s that correspondence, anyway? Lemme see how much you flubbed the tenses.”

“I’m better at speaking it,” Roy says by way of excuse as he leaves his beer on the book-stacked coffee table and drops to a crouch before the briefcase to rifle through. With his back to Ed, the strong span of his shoulders stress the limits of the white dress shirt, and a damp vee clings the cloth between his shoulder blades.

Ed releases a long, centering breath, the kind that Ling taught him way back when. 

It doesn’t matter. They don’t matter. It’s just a flower. 

“Just yell it across the continent, then,” Ed manages, proud of how chill his voice sounds. “I’m sure international relations will improve tenfold.”

“You know, I tried that once but something about it didn’t feel professional enough,” Roy says, striding over with papers outstretched. “This will have to do in the meantime.”

“Where I’m from,” Ed says, reaching past Roy to nip a pen from the coffee table, “we have husband-hollerin’ contests. You heard of them?”

“Husband hollering?” Roy says, outright smiling with delight as he takes a seat in the opposite chair, which isn’t grand at all like the trash chair, but something brown and plaid and pathetic. “Please, regale me.”

Ed skims the documents, marking corrections as he speaks. 

“It’s like yodeling, but not the same. Each wife has a different method for hollerin’ their husband home on the farm. Your voice gotta carry far across the fields, y’know? But everyone is different and every voice, too, so ladies take turns screaming and yelling and calling their husband home from the fields.”

Roy’s smile is impossibly wide and there’s a softness in his eyes that startles Ed when he glances up from his notations. 

“Are you suggesting I take up husband hollering to improve my communication skills?”

“I guess without a husband it would be pretty useless,” Ed says, returning to his reading. “Maybe if you yell loud enough, though, someone will turn out to put up with your ass.”

“If only,” Roy says, but Ed is too invested in his work to reply.

After a time, Ed shuffles the papers back into place and hands them out, eyes careful on the sheets to make sure their fingers don’t brush. The last thing he needs to do is leave a mark on Roy in turn. It's kind of funny. People in this world make a point to shake hands under every and all circumstances with the hope that they will both look to their palms and find a flower. Roy and Ed, though, they’ve been wearing gloves since forever. One of many unlucky things they have in common.

But Ed has discarded his gloves almost a decade ago and Roy isn’t wearing any in this oppressive evening heat. So Ed has to be careful. Forever, ideally. 

“I’ve seen worse from you,” Ed says as Roy accepts the stack of corrections. Before Roy can reply, Ed is up and out of his chair, body snapping with restless energy. “I’m gonna get my letters.”

Quickly, he evacuates the room, his bruise-hued rose fizzing like a cherry bomb right up his arm. In his room, he places palms upon his dresser, head bowed from the mirror as he takes seven breaths. 

It doesn’t matter. They don’t matter. A rose is a rose by any other name and not a cosmic commandment with divine power against his free will. 

Ed will not drag Roy down. 

When he returns to the room, Roy is flipping through an alkahestry book in Xingese, his brow wrinkled. The top two buttons of his starched collar are undone to expose the pale, damp vee of his chest and the shadow of dark hair. Long fingers skim the lines, the scars on the back of his hand no longer stark but matte and silvery with time. 

“You should really give me some lessons,” Roy says without looking up. 

“Like hell.” Ed shoves the letters in Roy’s briefcase himself and stands there, hands on his hips as he distinctly does not look at Roy’s sweaty neckline. “Okay, you can go now. I really am busy.”

“But it’s practically the middle of the night,” Roy croons, the curl of his mouth cocky as hell. He snaps the book shut. “Why don’t you stop for now? We can order food.”

“I already ate with you today,” Ed says with a frown.

“Intercepting your near death experience while you wolfed down an ungodly amount of lamb without chewing hardly counts as sharing a meal, Edward.”

“I don’t want to _share a fucking meal_ with you, Mustang,” Ed says, absolutely lying like a champ now. “Now go away. It’s a goddamn Wednesday. Don’t you need your beauty sleep or some shit? You know those wrinkles only get worse without a proper sleep regime. Al told me.”

Roy seems to catch himself before he outright touches his face, but it’s enough to have Ed grinning with the win. With a faint sigh, Roy shakes his head and carefully places the book atop its coffee table tower.

“Well, now that you’ve officially put the fear into me, I suppose I must. Thank you for taking time from your night to help, Ed.”

“ _You_ took my time, I didn’t offer it to you,” Ed says, following on Roy’s heels and chucking the uniform jacket at Roy’s face. Roy, of course, catches it without the slightest effort, his eyebrows raised in a way that says he knows Ed just tried to assault him.

“Thank you all the same.”

“Yeah yeah.” Ed waves him off. Which is a mistake, apparently, because Roy’s eyes catch on the bandage once more.

“How did it happen?” Roy says, eyes dark on the faux wound. 

“I fell,” Ed says blandly, which isn’t even an entire lie. Simply the wrong context.

“Big fall,” Roy says faintly.

“Probably the biggest,” Ed says. Their eyes meet and by the way Roy’s narrow, he can tell there’s an investigation going on into Ed’s entire facial structure. Well, the bastard isn’t going to find anything he shouldn’t. Hopefully. “Goodnight, Mustang.”

Roy’s head cocks, a subtle shift in the way he’s observing Ed.

“Goodnight, Edward,” he says, but somehow it sounds like a question.

Ed shuts the door in Roy’s face. 

***

On day three, Ed relents and buries himself alive in the library. 

A dozen books and more exist on the meaning behind soulmarks. The flower that appears, the color, whatever else. There can’t be an exact science because, well, that’s bullshit. How can there be science to a mysticism like: Oh, this is the person who is meant to love you despite all the world has done to you and vice versa. 

No. People are people and a goddamn temporary tattoo will never change the reality of the world they live in. Of Ed’s world or of Roy’s. 

But fuck if he doesn’t want to know what the stupid books say.

_The black rose is a mysterious bloom that can convey multiple messages between a marked pair. While the black rose is rare, it has been historically found between soldiers or warriors of ancient myth. Black is universally synonymous with death, funerals, and mourning, but carried a positive connotation in the opposite. New beginnings, as with the dark new moon invisible to the naked eye, are carried by the black rose. A blank slate of possibility plus the hope, promise, and loyalty associated with the classic rose remains._

“Fuck me with a rake,” Ed says, dropping his face into the book with a muffled thud.

It’s. . .not wrong. Which pisses Ed off more than it leaves him hopeful. Barely lifting his face from the page, he skims down to find the other color.

_Blue roses represent further mystery; to search for that which seems impossible. The blue rose has been historically found on star-crossed lovers of lore and long distance relationships that may cross countries. To give a blue rose to someone expresses your love of their individuality and their extraordinary, likely highly unique nature within the world. A blue rose is the rarest recorded color within the rose family of soulmarks. To match a partner with a blue rose is to truly attain the unattainable._

“ _Fuuuck_.”

“Edward Elric!” hisses the librarian who has been sick of Ed’s shit for like a decade now or whatever. She shuffles her old lady legs over to Ed’s table and places a hand smack dab in the center of his book, towering over him despite being shorter than him when they’re both standing. “I thought your days of lurking and huffing and puffing in my library were over. If you can’t control yourself, take your research elsewhere.”

Ed offers a thin, meager smile.

“Sorry, Ms Leffingwell. I found what I needed to know, anyway. I’ll put these away and go.”

“Oh, hush,” says Ms Leffingwell, scooping up Ed’s books and holding them to her chest and the same blouse she's been wearing for the last five years, at least. She must own, like, a dozen of them. “Don’t take my job from me, either. Flower language? That hardly seems up your usual alley.”

“Yeah,” Ed croaks. “Never thought it would be up mine either. Then again, I was due a bit of bad luck. Life has been too quiet.”

With a narrow expression, Ms Leffingwell softly sighs through her nose.

“You know, these books aren’t all what they’re cracked up to be.”

“That’s what I’m betting on.”

“But if you’re doing some research for someone else—”

“That’s me, always helping out a buddy in my free time.”

“Then you’d do well to remind them that some flowers are perennial and some annual. Some will last for a lifetime, never needing to be replanted, while others fade with the seasons. Something new may appear with the change of environment or scenery.”

Ed frowns, unsure how to absorb such arbitrary information.

“What?”

“People change, Mr Elric,” says Ms Leffingwell softly. “As do the seasons. Flowers sometimes don’t last forever between two people. It’s their choice to nurture that ground. It’s a part we rarely hear in the world of romanticizing this phenomenon.”

Ed processes.

“So. . .peoples’ destined person might not always be them?”

Ms Leffingwell stares at him a moment before breathing a quiet sigh. 

“Sometimes. But if you want my personal opinion, the world is too dismal to purposely walk through dead gardens. There’s nothing romantic about it at all.”

With that, she shuffles away and leaves Ed with more questions that books can’t answer.

***

Day four and Ed almost fucking forgets that this Saturday he is attending Elysia’s dance recital.

Cursing the empty schedule book he is meant to use, and _not_ as a paperweight, Ed flings on a relatively crisp white dress shirt, leaves the collar undone in the humidity, and on his way out the door, slips into a brick red vest that he buttons as he’s literally walking down the street. He’s not even sure if he locked the door, but he’s made it out in time to reasonably reach the dance studio. 

He’s readjusting his frayed ponytail at a crosswalk when the elastic snaps and his hair fall down past his elbows in great, heavy waves. Fuck. In the heat, his hair is oppressive. Gone are the days where he can use alchemy to reattach the pieces. Double fuck. 

Running wild hands through it and tucking it behind his ear, where it immediately comes untucked, Ed rushes up to the studio and bursts through the door. The foyer is crowded with family and other folks, but Ed spots Gracia in the crowd and beams as he cuts through the other assholes and envelopes her in a hug.

“Hi!” he says, picking her up just a little off her low heels. “I thought I’d be late.”

“Edward,” Gracia greets warmly, laughing as Ed lets her down. “You’re right on time. Elysia is already backstage getting ready with the other girls, but we can have a meal together after the show. What do you think?”

“Only if it’s your cooking,” Ed says, grinning when Gracia brushes at the flyaways of his wild mane. Her mom energy makes Ed feel lighter, brighter, even if just for a handful of hours. He treasures it. 

“Who else’s would it be?” Gracia asks, her eyes twinkling with humor. “Roy only keeps his weight up from my casserole deliveries too. You’re both the same like that.”

Ed’s stomach drops. He’d forgotten Roy. 

“Right,” Ed says. “Thank you for that.”

“Were you two—” Roy’s voice starts and stops instantly, and Ed’s already scowling as he shoots a dirty look over his shoulder.

Roy is staring, his expression once more blank. But his eyes, coal-dark with intensity, are flickering like errant sparks up and down the length of Ed’s loose hair.

“You’re. . .” Roy says, licking his lips and pausing. Then he’s suddenly smiling, all geniality once more as he pointedly looks to Gracia and acts like Ed isn’t even fucking here. “Gracia, the auditorium is opening. Shall we find our seats?”

Gracia agrees and turns to lead the way with Ed in tow. The ghost of fingertips brush the small of his back, a whisper across his elbow and no doubt his hair by proxy, then gone. Once more, Ed shoves a snotty snarl over his shoulder—

His mouth goes lax when he finds Roy staring at his hair with an intensity that shudders straight down Ed’s spine and wobbles his knees. Roy doesn’t even notice that Ed is looking at him. 

Gracia sits between them during the show, and that’s great. Grand. Out-fucking-standing. Ed is content to sit straight in his chair, if only to see over the head of the taller bald dude in the seat ahead of him. When Elysia appears, her body all lanky awkward teen years but holding herself with a ballerina’s grace, Ed doesn’t think he’ll ever stop smiling. 

His heart clenches and throbs for what Maes is missing, but Ed has been and will always be determined to create the most supportive environment for his daughter as humanly possible. Ed’s not all that great at nurturing, but, well. He tries.

When he looks over, his smile fades, because Roy’s face is so. . .tightly maintained. So trained into stillness that Ed instinctively understands that specific force of will it takes not to cry when you want to that fucking bad. 

Instead of holding Roy’s hand—because he can’t, and he wouldn’t anyway—Ed holds Gracia’s. 

After the show, Roy drives them all back to the Hughes household. It never feels normal or fine, but it still feels like a home in Ed’s heart. He has a habit of burning his important places to the ground, so he’s always been glad that this one escaped the bridges smoking in his wake.

The night is warm with a breeze, and they take supper on the back patio with squat, mismatched candles on the center of the table. Elysia is a goldmine of Maes, all chatter and quick comebacks, a sly teen smile like she knows more of the world than she possibly can, although everyone at the table recognizes she’s been through more than many kids her age, so she has every right to be just a little bit of a smartass. Roy and Ed are in her life, too, after all. 

Eventually, Elysia grows bored of her uncles anyway and retreats indoors to call her best friend in the dead of night to talk away the remains of Saturday. The adults are left to themselves, and they pointedly don’t talk about Maes, and that’s okay. He’s there at the chair left by Elysia. They don’t need to call up his spirit or some shit. His heart is here, just like Al has always been their mom’s heart. To Ed, anyway. 

“I’ll drive you home,” Roy says to Ed after Gracia’s third tired-mom yawn. Forget state alchemists. She is a superhero. 

Ed’s too relaxed to argue, and he finds himself with the window rolled down to the smell of nearby rain in the soaked, summer air. He holds his hand out the window in a quiet daze, feeling the wind flow between his fingers like water. His hair swarms like a whirlwind around his head at the whims of both open windows. 

“Your hair is down,” Roy says, almost so quietly that Ed doesn’t catch it. 

Ed props his elbow on the windowsill, leaning his head on his hand as he glances toward the shadowed profile that flickers like fire, in and out of passing lamplight. Ed doesn’t reply, because it’s a stupid and weird statement to begin with.

“Why?” Roy says, then blinks several times at the road, fingers flexing on the steering wheel as he clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I meant, why did you leave it down? That’s—it’s unlike you.”

“My hair tie broke.” Ed scoffs. “What, are you worried about my hair getting all over your pretty clothes? I’m sure you can stick some tape to it.”

“Oh,” Roy says. He doesn’t say anything past that.

Ed makes a face at his profile and turns away, leaning his temple against the door and shutting his eyes against the quickened breath of wind. 

They pull up in front of Ed’s rowhouse, three stories tall and thin as a rail. Roy parks beneath a streetlight and turns, his face quiet and dark eyes unreadable in the shadows. 

“How is your arm?” he asks. 

Stiffening on automatic, Ed quickly glances at the arm in question, clothed in only the thin white cotton of his shirt. He’d forgotten to wrap it on the way out, and the trained eye would probably be able to tell that there was nothing bulky wrapped around his forearm. Shit. 

“It’ll be healed soon,” Ed says simply, turning and clawing a little blindly for the door handle. “I heal quick.”

“Edward—”

It happens fast. As always, Ed is quick with his body, but Roy is quicker with his hands, and said hand is wrapped around Ed’s wrist as Ed attempts to evacuate the car.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” Ed snaps, whirling as Roy bodily yanks him back into the car for some ungodly reason. The hand Roy is holding splays out to stop himself from toppling over into Roy and—

Ed’s palm meets Roy’s throat in the rush to push away. The feeling of warm skin, lightly stubbled from a long day, jolts through Ed like lightning, shock and terror reeling between his ribs to strike right to heart. For the briefest moment, their eyes meet, and the raw hurt in Roy’s eyes is more dumbfounding than anything about this entire situation. 

Ed pulls back as if burnt and, to his horror, sees little buds of midnight blue seep from beneath Roy’s pale skin. 

“ _Ed_ ,” Roy says sharply, a strained strength of command rising to his voice. “Ed, just _tell me_ what’s been going on. You’ve been bizarre since Wednesday and—”

“I gotta go,” Ed says, bolting from the car and slamming the door behind him. He thuds into the hood, hands on hot metal as he grapples to skim around the bumper in his rush to escape. “Roy, I gotta _go_ ,” he says to the air, because he’s already lofting up the stairs and fumbling his keys to get inside.

Fuck. _Fuck fuck fuck_.

Shutting the door behind him, Ed instantly collapses. Leans against the wood and drags to the floor, legs splayed out before him, the metal one hitting the hardwood with faint clank. Ed stares dumbly at his shoes but he only sees the flowers in bloom, right up Roy’s throat where the world will see. 

It doesn’t matter. They don’t matter. They’re only flowers, and every flower dies.

Cosmic power be damned. Ed can never be with anyone in a way that matters. His rose is black for a reason, and Roy’s is blue for his own. 

***

There’s a banging on Ed’s door at four in the morning that same night, and technically it is the fifth day. 

Ed doesn’t have to guess who it is and his guts lurch and slosh with nausea as he takes his time down the stairs and toward the door. He’s wearing nothing but a ratty pair of black sleep pants tied at the waist and with dread tightening his lungs and making each breath harder, Ed does not cover the wildly bloomed bruise of a rose bleeding black and blue. 

The banging escalates and Ed opens the door, wholly unsurprised to see Roy standing there in what looks like black silk pajamas, an old pair of work boots with the laces wildly untied, his perfect hair askew, and breathing hard like he ran all the way here despite his car parked right behind him on the street.

“What the hell is _this_ , Ed?” is all he says as he inclines his chin, jerks down the soft collar of his shirt, and reveals the bloom of not one, but two roses beautifully bruising the length of his throat.

“Two?” Ed says, frowning as he critically eyes the frantic man on his porch. “Well that’s a weird one.”

“Do you truly think so?” Roy says, his tone sharp and acidic as he stands there. “You’ve been to The Gate and back, Ed. You’ve had your arm returned to you from who knows _where_ or _what_. You’ve been a walking Gate yourself. There have been practically two halves of yourself existing in different parts of the universe at any given time, so I think the perturbing part here isn’t the soulmark but the fact that you blatantly _did not tell me_ about it when I can see it right there on your damn arm!”

Ed goes still against the rare, rising ire of Roy’s temper, accepting the brunt of it as he knows he should. 

“Fuck,” Ed says. “You wanna come in?”

“What a gentleman,” Roy says, the seething burn beneath his words sizzling at Ed’s nerves as he strides inside and kicks off his shoes at the door. “Truly, I’m honored you give me the time of day or night.”

“Look,” Ed says, following Roy with a slouch to his shoulders and a scowl. “It would have been gone by today. At the very latest, tomorrow. If you hadn’t been so weirdly up in my business I’d have never accidentally touched you—”

Roy whirls on him, standing close, the inferno of his deep, dark eyes scalding Ed with the shock of their unbanked emotion.

“I’d have never been all up in your business if you hadn’t started acting like I was the plague. If you hadn’t started acting like—like we were going backwards.”

Ed pauses, processing.

“Backwards?”

“You, me—” Roy gestures between them with those volatile, expressive hands, then jabs a finger at his neck. “ _This_.”

“That,” Ed says, dumb as bricks tonight.

Roy’s gaze flares and then he’s turning, walking away, scraping hands through his hair in a sign of stress Ed has rarely seen. As he watches, Roy’s bunched shoulders relax, he rolls his head like he’s unknotting a cramp from his neck, and turns, his expression simmering and softer. 

“Edward,” Roy says, voice low and velvet in the pre-dawn blue that's shifting across the room. He doesn’t approach Ed and despite the summer heat, Ed feels oddly cold way over here without a shirt and his mark bared to the only person who shouldn’t have to see it “You need to understand that I am not angry about the mark.”

“That makes one of us,” Ed says on autopilot. He winces as little as Roy’s frame deflates. Ed folds his arms across his chest. “I mean—”

“For what it’s worth,” Roy says, smiling a weird, sad kind of smile that doesn’t make sense, “I’m actually rather in love with you, your terrorizing disposition aside. Or perhaps because of it. I’ve never really been certain.”

Ed stares, blanking completely on the hundreds of thousands of words he knows in half a dozen languages and none of them enough to express what’s going on inside of him at Roy’s admission. 

“Roy,” he manages, because his brain is really putting in the hard work today, apparently. 

“But you—you have it as well,” Roy says quickly, gesturing toward the stark rose on his forearm. “So it’s with my utmost hope and really rather uncertain deduction skills when it comes specifically to _you_ that. . .perhaps there’s more than I’d once hoped there could ever be for us.”

“And what, uh—” Ed licks his lips, unsure of what the fuck is going on past the fact that Roy Mustang, his forever crush and somewhat savior of the country, has just confessed his love for him and implied that the whole shitty rose bullshit is not the worst thing to ever happen to him. Them. “What _do_ you. . .hope? For us.”

“Edward,” Roy says softly, his voice like a soothing stroke down Ed’s spine. “May I come closer?”

“Do what you want,” Ed says gruffly, his face burning. “You always do anyway.”

“That sounds like a delightfully free pass to act as I please,” Roy says, closing the space between them and pausing nearly toe-to-toe. His smile is kind, if not a little strained around the eyes. “Ed, how do you feel about this? The obvious answer is rather furious, perhaps a bit betrayed by the universe to stick you with someone like me, but sometimes you’re not as obvious as I first assume. So, I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you to tell me in exactly your words.”

“I’m not stuck with you” Ed says, his face screwing up with too many scrambling thought processes at once. “You’re not—you don’t have to be stuck with me either. There’s, you know, perennials, but there’s annuals too. The flowers, the marks, they can change. _Ours_ could change. _You_ could change how you—how you feel about me or _this_ or—”

“But how do you feel about—“ Roy stops himself short, and when he swallows, the midnight roses upon his throat shift and swell with the skin. “Uh. Me.”

Ed doesn’t know why he didn’t see that coming, but the question takes him back all the same. To say it out loud will be too much, won’t it? It will be too damning for the both of them. 

“I’m not. . .” Ed watches the tired look in Roy’s eyes go sadder, quieter. It’s weird to see him this expressive, and it makes Ed want to reach out with that traitorous hand of his, to touch and comfort like he’s rarely ever wanted with another person. “Not the kind of guy who just changes his mind about shit.”

“Oh.” Roy’s voice is flat, the fire gone out. His lips curve. “Well, I understand your position. You’ve never been one to follow the rest of the world, and it’s something I’ve always admired about you. In a handful of days, my own mark will fade and you won’t have to—“

“H-hold on!” Ed winces at the high break in his voice, but his feet are willing him forward, his hand outstretched to meet the wide, hard expanse of Roy’s chest as if to stop him from walking out the door. “I mean about you! I wouldn’t change how I feel about _you_.”

Roy’s face tightens up, his smile growing fainter. 

“I—yes, I got that, Ed. I’m not going to force you into a relationship if you’re not—“

“I mean it’s _fine_!” Ed shoves at Roy, then follows, shoving him a second time until the fire flares back into Roy’s eyes and those slender hands powerfully grip Ed’s to still the onslaught. “I’m saying it’s _fine_ , you bastard. _I’m_ not gonna change my mind about you, it’s _you_ who’s gonna change your mind about _me_. Don’t you even know what our colors mean? The bullshit I read—“

“I’m familiar,” Roy says, a little breathless, his gaze a little wild on Ed’s, searching. “But we’re here, aren’t we? I’m standing here, am I not? And it seems that so are you.”

The words are blooming in Ed’s throat but they’re too much, too overwhelming to voice when he’s like this. 

“Roy,” Ed says, scrambling for the right words when their entire relationship has grown out of the wrong ones, “I. . .don’t want this to be. . .annual. So if you’re gonna be a flaky bitch or whatever, I’m not here for it. But like I said, I’m not going to, y’know, change my mind about you. I haven’t for a while or—or whatever.”

“Or whatever?” Roy repeats carefully, a slow smile breaking across his face, his dark eyebrows raising with a genuine, unmistakable glee. Before Ed can react, a strong arm is around his waist, pulling their bodies flush, Ed’s bare chest to Roy’s silk. Roy’s free hand cups Ed’s face, his thumb skimming Ed’s chin up to his bottom lip, where his mouth is slightly agape from the shock of their position. Leaning in, Roy’s voice is smooth and warm like whiskey going down. “Edward, am I to understand that not only have you been harboring feelings for me at length, but you made the express choice not to inform me even when your own body had physical proof that we just might make it through this unfortunate hellhole of a world together?”

“Uh.” Ed tilts his face to Roy’s, his own useless hands pinned between their bodies, palms to Roy’s chest. “That’s a shitload of words to say I didn’t wanna fuck up the kinda-okay thing we got going in lieu of the absolute worst case scenario.”

“That’s also a lot of words,” Roy murmurs, dipping forward, his lips skimming Ed’s cheek, “to say, I love you and it scares me.”

“ _You_ can say that,” Ed manages, flushing hot from head to toe in what he assumes is a full-body blush. “I’m sure as hell not.”

Roy hums with some kind of decision, his fingers flexing in then nearly undone braid at the base of Ed’s neck. Their mouths are so near, close enough to share each breath, to watch the thoughtful play of emotion in Roy’s eyes before he closes them and leans his brow to Ed’s. 

“Ed,” Roy rasps. 

“Y-yeah?”

“Will you give this a chance? A solid one.”

“You’re not mad?” Ed says, inwardly kicking himself for such a stupid fucking question. 

“Oh,” Roy says, a rumble of a laugh in his chest as he brushes his lips to Ed’s temple, traveling lower, his voice hushed, “I’m really rather livid. However, I’m willing to put that aside for the greater good.”

Ed cracks a smile despite himself, his arms slowly rising to snake around Roy’s neck.

“And what’s that?”

Roy is still cradling the side of Ed’s face; he coerces Ed to look at him. Their gazes hold, entwine, and something new unfurls behind the battered cage of Ed’s ribs. 

“You,” Roy says simply. “Perennially.”

When they kiss, Ed expects fireworks. What he gets is so much more devastating. 

The slow build of tension as Roy presses warm lips to Ed’s, the soft slide of tongue along the seam of Ed’s mouth, the wet velvet rasp when Roy takes his time to lick inside with a soft sigh. The honeyed buzz that shimmies up Ed’s spine and sparkles at the back of his brain, nerves tingling where Roy’s hand at his waist skims lower, lower to knead at the meat where thigh meets ass and ease them ever closer, plastered together in the dark night heat. 

Ed feels like he’s sticky; molten and melting in Roy’s arms as he relents to the deep, thorough series of kisses that change angle and shape and urgency. A sigh suffuses his entire body like his frame is releasing the tension of years, sagging into Roy’s hold, a moan breaking from Ed’s mouth as Roy’s clever hand skims the underside of Ed’s thigh and hikes his leg up over Roy’s hip. Ed has no choice but to lean in further. 

And through the skimpy cotton of Ed’s pants and the slippery slink of Roy’s silk pajamas, the heavy, thickening interest that presses against Ed’s stomach is unmistakable. 

Ed flickers to life, electric with need. 

“ _Roy_ ,” Ed gasps into Roy’s mouth, his lips already tender and sore from the way Roy is solidly, patiently devouring him. “You’re good with fucking me, like, right now, yeah?”

Roy drops Ed’s leg, his breath stuttering to a sudden stop and start as he pulls back, barely enough to outright gawk at Ed without his eyes crossing to do it. His hair is disheveled from Ed’s hands and even in the shadows, his pale skin is flushed high on his cheeks, his clever mouth swollen and stupefied. 

“Ed,” Roy croaks. “There is absolutely nothing in this world I would rather do.”

“ _Ohthankfuck_ ,” Ed spills out, yanking Roy in by the hair for a raw, stark kiss. When he releases Roy, he can’t help but grin at the frazzled expression he receives. “Let’s go.”

Ed doesn't look back as he takes Roy by the hand and leads him up the tall, skinny stairs. His skin feels like static, sizzling and alive, and he can feel Roy’s eyes on the back of his neck in a way that shouldn’t make his heart hammer so damn loud. 

His bedroom is sparsely furnished but for the hulking four poster bed that dominates all. It had to be brought up the stairs in four separate pieces with Al using alchemy to bring it back together. This is what happens when Alex Armstrong decides to move house at the same time as Ed and Al, insisting on the guest bed finding a new home. Al’s is equally outrageous, although primarily unused for a good five years now. 

Ed’s bed has black out curtains, though, and that’s what Ed really fucking loves. It’s so safe and cave-like and protects him from the morning sun from hell. 

Roy apparently likes what he sees too, because his hand has suddenly tightened in Ed’s, his attention still and unmoving from the vast piece of furniture. All at once he releases a breath and looks to Ed. 

“This is admittedly unexpected.”

Ed shrugs. 

“Hand me downs.”

“You have generous friends.”

“Maybe you would too if you weren’t unbearable to be around for more than five minutes.”

With an easy laugh that turns Ed’s knees to jelly, Roy pulls in Ed by the waist and unashamedly snuggles his face into the crook of Ed’s neck. He inhales deeply, ignoring the way Ed awkwardly pats Roy’s shoulder for lack of any other reply to the embrace. 

“Is that how long it’ll take, Edward?” Roy murmurs into Ed's neck, sending the hairs on Ed’s body standing on end. “Merely five minutes before you kick me out of the most sinful bed I’ve ever seen?”

“Ehhh.” Ed playfully ducks out of Roy’s hold and backs up with a grin, just out of Roy’s reach each time he makes a grab. “We’ll see. Impress me.”

With that, he turns and sweeps open the burgundy curtains to reveal the bed, entirely unmade with cheap, white on white sheets. A meager breeze sweeps through the two open windows of Ed’s room and briefly, Ed wonders just how hard Roy can make him sweat. 

Then, Ed looks over his shoulder and decides to say it. 

“Just how much can you make me sweat, Mustang?”

For a split second, Roy looks like he’s been hit with a truck. Then, an entirely different animal takes over, and Ed finds himself holding his breath as Roy slowly stalks forward, unbuttoning his top as he goes. 

“I would estimate a fair bit,” Roy says softly, his tone dropping deep as he moves onto the bed, both he and Ed facing each other on their knees. Ed swallows hard, watching the wide petals of the midnight roses printing Roy’s throat as the black silk is cast aside. “Let’s find out.”

They make each other _sweat_. 

Roy is all hands, because of course he would be. Pinning Ed to the bed, smiling at the way Ed bucks his hips up into Roy like that’s going to do anything more than rile them both. Ed feels Roy _everywhere_ ; the skim of fingertips between the ridges of his ribs, the clutch of hands on hips, then lowering, sinking into his thighs. Lips on Ed’s shoulder, dragging wet and open-mouthed up his neck to skim past his lips, refusing to give up a kiss until Ed moans for it and scrapes blunt nails hot down Roy’s back.

The landscape of them matches, flows and fits together, expansive and wide and breathtaking. Roy rolls him, ignoring the cry of indignance and kisses down Ed’s back, tonguing at the damp dip of his spine, lower and lower until he can thrust his tongue inside and open Ed up with a patience that borders on torture. Ed is face down and ass up, hiding a sob into his folded arms by the time Roy slips two fingers in with his tongue, the bright shriek of pleasure shooting through him like a comet or a star or fiery collision. 

Ed’s skin is slick, his thighs trembling and prickling with sweat, his breath in hot puffs and pants when Roy finally finishes with him, has him spread and waiting and outright whimpering with the wanting. That long, heavy body slides over his own, just the right size to cover Ed completely, blanket him in the oppressive heat as Roy presses his lips to Ed’s nape in a kiss that turns to a possessive bite. Ed is already melting into it when Roy shoves his cock in, the thick crown splitting Ed wide with a hoarse cry from one or both of them.

“ _Ed_.” Roy sounds entirely fucked as he slides in, devastatingly slow, his hands bruising on Ed’s waist to keep him in place, keep him from wiggling around and taking it all at once. Roy sounds fucking unbelievable. “Ed, you’re—you’re so beau—”

Ed growls, snaps his hips back, and takes Roy to the hilt. A sound punches out of Roy like an elbow to the gut, his brow drops between Ed’s sweaty shoulder blades, and the sudden pace drives into Ed with such a quick start that he can’t bite back the high, sharp cry that climbs the back of his throat. 

They move together like animals, like the end goal is the only thing in sight, blurred and hazed from the hothouse humidity rising from their bodies. The slick, sloppy slap of hips is driving Ed beyond distraction, beyond thought as he bites the sheets, his arms spread before him, clenching the blankets to keep from being launched across the mattress with each powerful thrust. 

Roy wraps a sweat-slippery fist round Ed’s weeping, neglected cock and _then_ it’s fireworks. The release rips through him without warning, a spark to instant detonation as he rides through the vicious hammering of Roy’s hips, distantly recognizing one of Roy’s hands lacing with his fingers upon the bed. The pulsing pressure of Roy’s orgasm fills Ed up to bursting, and when teeth sink into the same spot as before and a gravely groan sounds in his ear, Ed collapses in a heap.

Sounds seep back into the room. Their shallow breathing, out of synch. The early morning traffic from the street and an errant honk. The breeze rustling the lace curtains this house came with upon purchase.

Some loudmouth part of Ed’s brain faintly reasons he’s going to have to learn how to breathe underwater with all the humidity and thick air they’ve pumped into the room. The other dumbass part of him says it’s perfectly fine to just drown and die at this point because he’s never going to have sex like that again and he might as well end on a high note.

Except, Roy is _staying_ , so living on might be one of Ed’s better plans. 

Because this matters. They matter.

“Was that, uh—” Roy rolls off of Ed and heaves a breath, eyelashes fluttering but not opening. For a moment he seems to entirely forget that he was talking.

With a weak arm, Ed reaches out and pokes Roy’s cheek. His skin is hot.

“Was that what.”

Roy’s eyes pop open and he lolls his head to the side with a lazy, smug smile.

“Was that longer than five minutes?”

Ed can’t help it. His brain is all melty, and something about Roy splayed out in his bed with the stark black-and-blue frills of open roses, Ed’s roses, on his bared throat, make Ed horribly soft.

So, he smiles. 

Then, 

“Sorry, I wasn’t timing it. The entry is invalid. Guess you’ll have to try again, Mustang. Tough luck.”

“Oh dear,” Roy says, promptly grabbing a hollering Ed to pull him atop. Grinning and gleaming with sweat, Roy bands his arms tightly around Ed’s slippery waist to keep him in place. “What a hardship. I’ll be writing a strongly worded letter outlining the poor sportsmanship of my partner. I’ll expect an apology in the form of—”

Ed kisses the bloom on Roy’s throat and decides on starting that apology right about now.


End file.
